The one thing you can always count on at this time of year is the predictability of the light entertainment. In keeping with the season this Christmas, the West Yorkshire Playhouse is showing repeats. Terry Johnson's much-produced farce has been knocking around for more than 10 years, but none the less seems destined to grow old disgracefully. Not that it doesn't display signs of age - one of the biggest laughs of the evening occurs when one of the characters receives a call on his "cell", and pulls out a phone the size of a brick.

And yet the more things change, the more they apparently stay the same. Johnson's play concerns the painful break-up of a nebbish comedy appreciation society that has convened an extraordinary meeting to mourn the passing of Benny Hill. The sketches they re-enact in the comedian's honour pay homage to the saucy strain of English humour, taking pops at all the usual stereotypes - women, homosexuals, foreigners... I bet they'd love Little Britain.

Matthew Lloyd's production bounces along nicely, yet keeps a perceptive eye on the emotional anguish beneath the custard pie and soda-siphon moments. The parts of broody Eleanor and her unenthusiastic husband Richard are among the most physically demanding of contemporary comic roles, requiring the naked embarrassment of a sex-instruction tape and some sticky interplay with a sloppy trifle; yet Lysette Anthony proves as adept at inflicting these indignities as Nicolas Tennant does in receiving them. There's enjoyable work also from Derek Hutchinson, whose flapping manner is sufficient to make John Inman seem butch.

Yet the real poignancy of Johnson's play is that the pantheon of deceased masters it celebrates continues to swell in number every year. So perhaps in honour of this fine performance, one ought to pause and offer up a quiet goodnight from him.